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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22550191">Sick</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka'>yeaka</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Vignette</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 16:02:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>624</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22550191</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor and RK900 didn’t go to work.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson/Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>99</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was a time when Hank <i>wanted</i> to work alone. He was happy to drive his former partner off, and hey, he’d work with Chris if he had to, but Reed was a nightmare, and everyone else functioned at varying degrees of incompetence. The very opposite of Connor. There’s no one on the entire force half as efficient as Hank’s android, and even if he sometimes needs some human intuition in the mix, Connor’s loss is palpable when he’s away. It’s the same with RK900, who was supposed to replace all of them but has worked out as just another complementary coworker. It’s strange having them <i>both</i> gone. Hank fumbles with his keys at the door, because working alone has left him more exhausted than he’s been in ages, even though he’s in better shape and his liver’s finally working. </p><p>He hopes he’ll find them both fully functional again. They stayed home just to run their anti-virus software—they said if they did it at the station, they might accidentally infect some of the other androids that have lined the precinct’s walls for years. Secretly, Hank blames RK900. He’s grown too fond of them both, but Connor never caught any viruses until they took his newer model home. </p><p>Hank pushes inside and almost trips over Sumo, who’s sleeping by the entrance. Sloppy sounds drift in from the living room—familiar noises that it wouldn’t take a detective to decode. Hank freezes for half a second, then hurriedly fumbles out of his jacket and shoes. </p><p>They’ve got some nerve. He spent the day running himself ragged, trying to afford rent for all three of them since he’s the only that gets paid a real wage, and he even <i>worried</i> about them, but he strolls out, and there they both are: tangled up on the couch, making out like a couple of horny teenagers left home alone. </p><p>He watches RK900’s fingers thread through Connor’s silky hair and Connor’s pink tongue trace RK900’s parted lips, and the way they grind their lithe bodies together. RK900 is a little taller, a little broader, and he uses that to his advantage, looming over Connor and forcing his prototype to bend. Connor’s legs are drawn up and spread around RK900’s lap, his jacket peeled away and his tie hanging across the armrest. His white button-up’s almost fully open—RK900’s hand freely roams his chest, kneading his tight pecs and toying with his nipples. Connor moans into RK900’s mouth and grinds himself against the obvious bulge at RK900’s crotch. RK900 came fully equipped, and they finally got Connor that upgrade.</p><p>There are a few fleeting seconds where Hank’s just watching them, and then he realizes he’s getting sucked in—his anger’s ebbing away in the wake of raw attraction. He forces himself to cut it out and growl, “I assume you’re feeling better.”</p><p>Connor’s head lolls back, eyes darting to Hank. He must’ve heard Hank come in; he has excellent sensors for all five senses. RK900 trails his mouth down Connor’s throat and toys with Connor’s neck as Connor looks at Hank. He murmurs a static-ridden, “Sorry.”</p><p>RK900 suddenly shoves Connor down against the cushions—Connor slides into place without protest. RK900 rips his shirt open, sending the last few buttons flying across the room, revealing every inch of his smooth synthetic chest. Connor arches up into RK90 and makes a noise that no machine should make. Hank doesn’t even think Tracis can go there. Squirming in RK900’s grasp, Connor moans, “<i>Hank.</i>”</p><p>Whatever irritation Hank still had melts out of him. Defeated, he slinks across the room to fetch a chair to pull up. They pay him back with the view, and then with a third round that he eagerly joins.</p>
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